


Legacy

by badgerpride89



Series: Afterword [5]
Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Gen, aaron davis - Freeform, dead peters club tm, everyone doing their best, mixed feelings about dead people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18996346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerpride89/pseuds/badgerpride89
Summary: It's the one year anniversary.





	Legacy

**Saturday**

Dad wakes him up early. Miles groans and blearily checks the clock. He'd still be asleep if he was at school, that's how early it is. He rubs his eyes and shuffles into the kitchen. Both of his parents are dressed for work already. Miles wakes up a little more at that. Then he remembers what time of year it is and wonders how he could've forgotten. 

“Ah, Miles,” Mom says as she finishes the eggs. “Your papa and I have our schedules for the week.”

“What's the damage?” he jokes weakly.

His dad half-glares at him, like he appreciates the joke but this is really the wrong time. Which Miles gets. It's not every day that New York prepares for Spider-man's memorial. Schools have the week off, given the trauma, security, and traffic nightmare the days leading up to the memorial will be. His parents...

“All hands on deck at the precinct,” his dad tells him as he slings a duffle bag over his shoulder. “Seven to midnight every day.”

Miles nods. His dad's the Spider-man whisperer at the precinct so yeah his bosses want him on hand during peak spider hours. Sure, Miles has branched out in terms of cops he's friendly with but it's kinda obvious his dad is Spider-man's favorite. Thankfully, his dad's put it down to surviving the collider together and his willingness to listen to the vigilante.

“Mamí?” Miles asks.

“I got the extra shifts at the hospital, papí. Six to eleven until Saturday.” 

Ouch.

That's basically the whole week alone without his parents. Any other time, he'd probably make some grandiose plans, maybe invite the gang over to hang out. Something tells him he's not going to have that kind of time this week.

“You’re fourteen, we trust you but please do not spend the whole week in your room, okay? Go visit Ganke or that Gwen girl-” 

“But be sure to text us.”

“And stay the hell away from Saint Gabriel’s, the convention center, and the museum. I don't want you caught up in that madhouse, understand?”

“Got it, Dad.”

Dad kisses Mom and gives Miles a one-armed hug. “We’ll talk later, okay? I gotta get going. I love you both.”

“Love you,” he and his mom say as he leaves the apartment.

Mom lingers a few minutes more but she, too, leaves with a kiss and good-bye. Miles should go back to bed. It is too dang early and he was up way too late stopping Mysterio. But now that he is awake, and alone, and will be for the rest of the week, restlessness settles in his bones. It’s not a spider thing, not exactly. It’s anticipation, he thinks, for the one year anniversary of so many things. 

Too many.

He can’t help thinking about what he can do, can’t help wondering what he  _ should _ do about the whole memorial thing. This is Spider-man’s week and it’s just...he wants to do something and nothing at the same time. Peter Parker is dead, his version of Spider-man is gone, and Miles doesn’t know what to do about that. He wants to hide out for the week. He also wants to shout from the rooftops, for all of New York to hear, “Peter Parker wanted to help me. Even though he had no idea who I was, even though I was just some nobody kid to him, he trusted me to save everyone, and he tried to save Fisk and all of you and Fisk killed him for it.” It’s confusing. 

Unable to really settle but loath to call the others at this time of day, Miles plops onto his bed and starts surfing MyTube videos. The hours spiral past as he starts watching his favorite street artists, falling deep into an auto-rec hole. The music, the time lapse, the explanations soothe him and he slowly relaxes, doodling absently on a loose sheet of paper. After a while, he blinks and sits up at a string art video. He’s heard of it but never seen anything like this. His eyes widen as the tutorial continues, as patterns and colors emerge from anchors and carefully laid lengths of string. He stares at the builds, at the instructions, at his web-shooters. Maybe...

His phone alarm blares. He saves several videos to a playlist and throws on his clothes and hopper, his mind abuzz with this new artform.

Lunch with Peter and Gwen is good. But awkward. Peter's twitchy, stealing all of Gwen's fries and none of Miles’. Gwen lets him with only token resistance. They both surreptitiously check their hoppers every few minutes.

The kicker comes when they both demand to go on patrol with him. Several robberies, Vulture's shenanigans, attempts to bust Kingpin out of prison, it's a lot. And he’s glad for the help. But. Gwen and Peter take point like they did back in the beginning, back when Miles only had six months under his belt and deferring to them made sense when none of them had a ton of experience fighting in a group. They’ve all patrolled his New York together several times - it's the only one that knows the multiverse exists and that multiple spiders are a thing- but usually they ask him for the hot spots. They make plans to patrol. They follow his lead. 

Not demand. Not override him.

By the time he cooks a very late dinner, he's too tired to do more than grumble to himself about overprotective friends.

* * *

**Sunday**

As much as he wants to sleep in, Miles gets up at eight and heads to nine o’clock mass. Not because he particularly wants to but because he knows his parents will hear about it if he doesn’t. The priest says a few nice words about Uncle Aaron and asks the congregation to pray for the Davis-Morales family. He knows it’s meant sincerely but it still strikes him wrong.

After mass, he heads home, changes, and grabs a few things before heading back out, pencil dancing across his notebook on the subways. The first ideas are trash but the next show promise; he pencils in web fluid calculations and anchor ideas in the margins as he makes his last stop. It’s not until he arrives that he thinks maybe he should’ve called ahead. 

The tributes outside the house have grown in number again, though these are less permanent than the earlier rounds - cards and drawings and flowers and silly string webs with plastic spiders on top. It’s still unnerving, seeing everyone’s support for a man who isn’t even theirs, not really.

May Parker opens the door with a wane smile. “Well, aren’t you a sight?” she says, her tone reminding him of Peter’s when something pulls him out of a funk.

She steps back and gestures at Miles, granting him entrance. He grins tightly at her and removes his shoes as she shuts the door. It’s kinda weird, thinking that Peter Parker wouldn’t recognize the place. It had taken her weeks of arguing with her homeowner’s insurance and several more trying to find a contractor to take the job- Spider-man’s aunt or no, no one wants to take on a client in the Kingpin’s crosshairs- but eventually she won out. She always does. The house is still two stories, still old school in its layout, but the furniture’s a far cry from the soft old white lady style he saw that one time. Instead of yellow, the walls are a light blue and one of them has thin green vines crawling skywards. 

“So, what brings you here?” Mrs. Parker asks.

Miles blinks, takes off his backpack, and pulls out the tupperware of pasteles.

Mrs. Parker raises an eyebrow, the expression near identical to Peter and Benjamin and, he suspects, her nephew, and slowly her smile transforms into one of actual happiness.

“My mom taught me how to make them,” he explains, bobbing up and down on his feet. “Um, there’s enough in there for the entire week, and you should reheat them low in the microwave over several minutes or in the oven to keep them from drying out. They’re mostly pork but there’s a couple beef in there, too.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Parker replies as she takes the container. He thinks her eyes water a bit.

As she heads into the kitchen, she calls, “How are your parents?”

Miles shrugs even though she can’t see it. “Dad’s basically living at the station until...you know.”

The big day. That’s what a man’s death has become. A big day.

Miles winces at the thought but soldiers on, “Mom took extra shifts this week so she can have next week off. Inspection season and stuff.”

Mrs. Parker nods at him. “I don’t miss that about working,” she says lightly.

Miles doesn’t quite know what to say so he just nods back.

“And how are you doing?” she asks as she walks back into the main room and takes a seat on her too large couch. She’s less facing Miles and more turning away from Peter’s picture on the end table. 

Miles blinks at the question and shrugs. “I dunno.”

Because, well. The coming week of Praise Peter Parker,  _ the _ Spider-man, is- Is it weird that Peter’s death, horrible as it is, doesn’t hurt? He wishes he could’ve known the dude, that he didn’t die, obviously, but still, his memory is linked with all the other spider-people, with Gwen and Peter and the rest. There’s so much  _ good  _ surrounding Peter Parker’s death he feels bad that it doesn’t feel bad. Not really. It’s more that he’s dreading next week when it’ll really hit that his uncle is  _ dead- _

He shudders a bit and eagle-eyed Mrs. Parker catches him. He straightens instinctively.

“Well, I'll be out at all hours this week but feel free to let yourself into the cave if you need anything.”

Between Mrs. Parker's nosy old lady neighbors and his own discomfort with the cave, he doesn't think he will.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

* * *

 

Just after lunch, news breaks that Electro’s wreaking havoc again. Blown power generators, chunks blown out of buildings, the works. Miles heads out, using the hopper’s mapping function to chart the fastest course. 

One building over, his spider-sense pings and Peni appears between him and Electro. Her mech jumps into the fray, her battle cry echoing over Miles’ communicator. He wants to ask why in the world she’s here, wants to get annoyed that she didn’t ask or plan with him first, but there’s no time. He sighs, shakes his head, and aims for the civies trapped a dozen stories above the street. He steps into the rubble and salutes, projecting more confidence than he feels.

“Hi, everyone,” he says lightly, trying not to twitch at the sound of battle behind him. “Okay, so here's the deal. I'm gonna help you get to the building on the back street. Once you're there, you're gonna evac down the stairs and to the ambulances, comprende?”

Most nod while another gestures first at her ears then at the unconscious person on the ground. Miles can see his leg is broken too. He nods at the woman and gives her a thumbs up. He stabilizes the guy's leg with a thick coat of web fluid then his neck, then picks him up. He herds the crowd to the far side of the building then breaks open the floor to ceiling window pane. They may be gaudy and unsafe but they sure make rescues easier. He fires two lines across to the other building then activates and shoots netting between them. The guide lines are tricky, what with the other building only eight stories high and his being shorter than most of his civies, but he gets them up and anchored. He sticks to the outer glass and gestures for them to start moving. They're New Yorkers, they move calmly and purposefully. 

Once they’re mostly on the other side, his spider-sense blares. He grabs the unconscious man and repels towards the street, bypassing the building altogether. As he does, Electro and Peni suddenly whip around the corner, the mech screaming towards the civies. Miles shifts the man and shoots netting above the civilians. Peni thinks fast and throws out a line to it, pulling herself towards it, spinning up and over before landing. The netting gives a little under the weight but holds. She flings herself back at Electro before he can target the building. Miles lands on the pavement, sets the man down, and swings into the fight. Even with Peni screening Miles, Electro doesn’t stand a chance against two spiders.

Once things calm down, Miles turns to Peni, glaring at her through the mask. On the other side of the glass, she holds her chin up, daring him to speak.

“I would have handled it,” he says. 

Peni raises an eyebrow at him. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t need back up.”

Miles scowls. “Actually, it does.”

“Oh, yeah? What would’ve happened to those people you saved?”

“The firefighters and helicopter rescue would’ve taken care of it, like they always do,” he returns, emphasizing the last phrase with a gestures towards the fire trucks behind them and helicopters returning to their deployment stations. “Once Electro went down, I’d go back up and help out. Like I usually do.”

She knows this. Miles knows she knows this, he’s the one who told her way back when they started running group training together.

Even so, she crosses her arms and glares at her control panel. “I was only trying to help.”

“I would have called you if I needed it.”

“Yeah, right,” she mutters, so softly Miles almost misses it.

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Fine, whatever,” she throws back as she jabs one of the buttons.

She vanishes before Miles can say another word.

That’s two days, three weirdly overprotective, unhelpful spider-people. As if this week couldn’t get any longer.

* * *

**Monday**

Now he knows they're handling him. 

“Don't you have a nine to five?” he asks when Benjamin materializes mid-morning.

He has the decency to look a little sheepish as he shrugs, hands in his pockets. “City wide strike for a mandated minimum wage, kid. The entire town's shut down.”

“Really?” Miles asks a little skeptically.

“See for yourself,” he says as he pulls a crumpled newspaper from his coat pocket and hands it to Miles.

It's exactly what Benjamin says. It's not even a Bugle paper, it's the Times. It's got other stories and is even formatted like a real paper, complete with ads and obituaries.

“I’m not going out until later,” Miles says, trying to confirm his suspicions.

“I don’t have plans,” Benjamin returns. “I quite miss quiet mornings.”

Miles scowls. “First Peter and Gwen, then Peni, now you. Am I gonna get Porker tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

Miles groans. “Come on, man.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t need backup this week,” Benjamin says pointedly.

And now they’re talking about him behind his back. Great.

“That’s not the point. This is my world. It’s my Peter Parker and my- At least let me ask for help first.”

Benjamin eyes him, pity flitting behind his dark eyes. 

“You know what? Fine. You want to waste your time, go ahead,” Miles says as he enters his room and shuts his door. He briefly thinks about texting Ganke but he’s off at his aunt’s birthday. He thinks about sending a group message about leaving him alone and letting him do his thing but given that they’re coordinating without him, which hurts, he doesn’t think it’ll make a difference. 

Instead, he practices. After some trial and error, he starts getting the hang of the simpler string art designs. It’s all math and spatial orientation, two skills he’s always had. He seeks out tutorials on the more advanced weaves he’ll need if he’s going to do this.

A couple of hours later, Benjamin knocks on the door. Miles scrambles, hiding the trial runs before he opens it. Benjamin has a pair of large sandwiches, stuffed to bursting with vegetables and cheese, and two glasses of water on a tray. A peace offering.

Miles gestures at the living room and heads to the couch where Benjamin places the meal on the coffee table. It’s tense. Well, Miles is tense, Benjamin is reading Dad’s Daily Bugle while he eats, his glasses halfway down his nose.

“How's Frederick?” Miles asks to fill the silence.

Benjamin rolls his eyes good naturedly. “Oh, he's fine, probably doing something I’d be obligated to stop if I was there, so...”

“You're here instead,” Miles says flatly.

Benjamin chuckles over his sandwich. “If I had to guess, he's cleaning some dough he stole off Saltore several years back.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“People gotta eat.”

“No, I mean, you’re good with that? Money laundering?”

Benjamin swallows before answering. “I could go into an argument about the moral relativism of stealing from the mob but somehow, I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.”

It’s not. “Is that all he was doing?” Miles finally asks, more to his sandwich than Benjamin.

He hears him anyway. “Not at all. He hurt a lot of people.”

Miles very nearly chokes. That means- “Then how-”

“He turned informant, for all the good it did. Did his time in the slammer, not much more I could ask, really,” Benjamin replies calmly. He polishes off his sandwich before finishing, “Not his fault they couldn’t track down his stash with a map and key. Why the curiosity?”

It’s Miles’ turn to shrug. He really doesn’t want to say it, not with them already babysitting him. “How do you know he won’t do it again?” he asks instead.

“Because he proved it. Because I know him.”

Miles wishes it was that simple on his end. His uncle can’t change, can’t prove he means it because he’s dead and the dead don’t get another chance in this life. Miles can’t  _ talk  _ to anyone about it, can’t take his Dad to the subway tunnel and say, “This is what Uncle Aaron gave me, this is why I love him and why I can’t deal with him being dead, Dad, because he spent every hour between this and his death trying to kill me, he just didn’t know it was me and that doesn’t make it better, a’ight.”

He finishes his sandwich in silence then heads to his room and grabs his gear. Benjamin focuses too much on him and not enough on himself when they run into trouble. At least he’s not as much of a disaster as the others. His fighting style is getting in close and making as big a stink as possible anyway so Miles knows it from their group training and adjusts to it. He’s not justifying himself afterwards. It's a sad comment on the week that Miles almost considers the night a success.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Porker pops in that afternoon. He makes Miles hot dogs. Miles learned long ago not to ask what’s in them. Miles tries ditching him but Spider-Ham operates on his own logic. Next, he tries ignoring him. It kinda works. Porker hangs back and lets Miles handle most of the crime-fighting himself. Well, until Scorpion shows up. Then he gets out in front and makes a racket. Then he's taking hits Miles could dodge if he wasn't throwing him off his rhythm. Then Miles needs to remind him that Miles is supposed to talk to the police, not him. And so goes the rest of the night. It's annoying.

At least, Miles thinks grimly as he ends the day, he scouted some good locations for his tributes.

* * *

**Wednesday**

Peter texts him throughout the morning. 

The entire morning. 

It starts well enough but Peter quickly grates on his nerves. It’s the inane, overly safe, overly careful questioning that crawls under his skin. Miles grits his teeth at the patronizing handling for a couple hours but reaches his breaking point when Peter invites himself on patrol with Miles tonight. Thanks but no thanks, he texts Peter then hammers it home with a text that he could do without the panicked question marks and exclamation points whenever he goes more than five minutes without answering, too.

Miles goes back to MyTube and watches another video on string art, carefully practicing his designs with some spare web fluid. It starts looking like real art when he runs his markers over the strands. The color is sparse but just enough for his brain to judge how it’ll look full size and in full, living color. That, of course, will require dying his web strands. He debates whom to ask about it but really, there’s only one spider with the knowledge who hasn’t smothered him all week.

“Hey, Miguel,” he says as the irritated geneticist appears on screen.

“What? I’m kinda in middle of something.” Between the dark circles under his eyes and his slumped posture, he’s clearly exhausted, even by his standards, which are extreme even for spiders.

Miles winces slightly but continues. “Um, how do I make my web fluid different colors?”

“What?” The look says more than the flat, disbelieving delivery.

“You know...does adding food dye work or does it have to be, like, fabric dye? I’m tryin’ to make this project thing-”

“Why in the world are you calling me  _ in the middle of the day  _ just to ask me about web colors? Damn, why-”

Miles huffs. “Look, I’m sorry, man, but the others are being weird, okay, and it was just a stupid question, you don’t have to go all-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Miguel snaps and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He glances at something off screen and nods to himself. “Well, go big or go home, right.” 

Miles is about to ask what he's talking about when Miguel meets Miles’ gaze and says, “Fine, look, give me a few, I’ll be right there.”

“But that’s not-”

“Look, muchacho, chemistry works a little differently between our worlds, I’m not just gonna tell you what works here and tell you figure out the rest.”

He starts the hopper sequence before Miles can argue further.

Miles crosses his arms, looks down at the ground, and picks up where he left off. “Look, you don’t have do this, I can figure this stuff out too, you know. Just ‘cause I like art more than o-chem doesn’t mean I’m dumb, okay.”

Miguel glances around the apartment and snaps his fingers, demanding a web cartridge. Miles hands him one, which Miguel promptly slots into his own web-shooter and begins charting the chemical formula.

“Normally I’d be right there with you,” he says as he fiddles with the web-shooter. “You’re a smart kid, Miles. But you freakin’ called me, in the middle of the day, four days out from, oh, you know, the anniversary of the biggest cluster the multiverse has ever seen, asking about  _ tie-dye web fluid _ . If ever there was a code-” Miguel shakes his head. “Of course I’m gonna check on you.”

Well, when you put it like that. Miles doesn't have a quick response so he keeps quiet. Miguel's gizmo beeps. He nods and programs another sequence into it.

“I don't need you guys babysitting me,” Miles finally mumbles. “I’ve been at this a year now. Guess I just thought you’d trust me a bit.”

“Again, may I remind you that the multiverse almost ended this time last year? Everyone's a little trigger happy right now. We don't come breaking down the door every other day of the year, do we?”

Miles shakes his head.

“There you go.”

The silence stretches on for a moment, Miles rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He gets it, he does, it's just annoying. Peter Parker dying or the multiverse almost collapsing in on itself isn't the worst part of that week for him. It's his uncle. And none of them seem to get that. He could spell it out and they still wouldn’t get it, because they didn’t know Uncle Aaron as anything other than the Prowler. The only sympathy they have is for Miles, for Miles loving him and having to deal with this complicated combination of emotions towards him.

Miguel must see something on his face because he huffs and says, “You want the sunshine and unicorns version or the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“Truth,” Miles answers immediately, curious as to where Miguel is going with this. 

“Okay,” he replies and ejects the web fluid cartridge. “So, Peni and I have been making contact with multiple dimensions. We're up to seventy now. In all the new earths we've encountered, we haven't found a single dead spider. Not one.”

Miguel pauses, like this is some life altering fact. But Miles is just confused.

“And that’s weird,” he says slowly.

“Very,” Miguel confirms as he hands the cartridge back to Miles, “We’re just looking for spiderfolk-DNA across the multiverse. Think about it: we’ve found men, women, other, young, old, even a dog and a pig. Yet, not a single spider corpse, though I will admit that old lady in the wheelchair is close. What you do make of that?”

Miles almost rolls his eyes, because what does this matter, but Miguel’s narrowed, focused gaze stops him. He considers the question. “That you guys only get signals from living cells with spider-DNA?”

“Hypothesis number one. There’s a whole other multiverse out there composed entirely of dead spiders that we will probably never know about,” Miguel agrees then flicks him on the chest, “Worlds where any little decision someone, the universe or whatever made went belly up and boom. No more spider. And we will never see it because our instruments only pick up the resonance between living spiders.”

Horror slowly dawns on Miles’ face but Miguel blusters on, “Hypothesis number two: your universe is an anomaly. The two spiders, the improbability that one spider would be created hours before the other died, the fact that your universe became the epicenter of a multiversal collapse which could have warped the very fabric of the space-time continuum in ways we’ll never understand, who knows. The point is in your universe, spiders can and do die in the line of duty.”

Miles squirms, remembers that his spider had glitched out just before he found Peter Parker fighting the Green Goblin. Was some universe out there missing its spider-person? And would he, or any of them, ever be able to actually learn that?

Miguel tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Either way, muchacho, your world’s already killed one spider. Everyone knows it could happen to them but, looking at you, they can’t forget it. Of course your squad’s going keep an eye on you, especially this time of year. If something happens to you, who knows if we’d land on the right planet, let alone the right city, if we tried hopping here. We might not ever get answers or be able to say goodbye.”

Miles bites his lip and looks away. “How long they been thinkin’ like that?”

“Probably since they all returned home,” Miguel says, his words all the more brutal for the softness of his tone. “You get to making these kinda calculations in our line of work. Peni and Gwen probably don’t even realize they’re doing it.”

After a minute, Miles mumbles, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“None of us did. Look, Miles, just think of it as establishing protocol: how to honor lost spiders. We’re all just making this up as we go along. It’ll settle in a couple of years.”

“I don’t live in a couple of years, I live in the here and now,” Miles nearly whines.

Miguel chuckles and hands him a thumb drive. “So lead the way, Miles. Take charge of the decision. And make us part of it, too.”

Miles numbly takes it and nods.

He has a lot to think about.

* * *

That evening, he stays in. It takes him an hour to gather his courage and dial Peter.

Peter picks up on the first ring, concern etched deep on his face.

“I'm fine,” Miles says quickly, cutting off Peter's obvious question. 

Peter nods but says nothing further. Miles takes a deep breath.

“Look, I'm sorry I snapped. I shoulda asked better.”

“I'm sorry, too. I know we've gone a little overboard the last week. You're one of us, Miles, and I should have brought you in on it from the beginning. In our defense, none of us handles death well and the prospect of losing you even less so.”

Miles nods. “I get that, I do, but I need you get me. This might be the really bad week for you guys, but it’s next week for me.”

“Your uncle.”

“Yeah.”

“Aw, kid,” Peter says as he scratches the back of his head. “Shit, I'm sorry.”

“I don't need you to be sorry.”

“Then what do you need, Miles?”

Miles ducks his head and stares at the floor, Miguel’s words echoing in his brain.

“How do you _do_ it every year? You know…” he flops his wrist.

“My uncle.”

Miles nods.

“Honestly, kid, it's just practice. Some years it's worse than others and it never really stops hurting but you start thinking good things again, like how he would've loved seeing that movie with me or how he and MJ would have been embarrassingly loud together during my PhD commencement. Somehow, it starts being a good hurt.”

Miles nods slowly. “Your aunt, did she ever...know what really happened?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “I think she did but I never told her. Couldn’t handle it if she blamed me too.”

“Then how did you, you know, do stuff around that with her?”

“I dunno, I just took the time to be with her, really. Let her be with me as best I could. Why?”

“Mom and Dad have next week off,” Miles explains slowly. “We’re going to my grandmother’s house for a couple days, the family’s doing something for Uncle Aaron. I just...”

Really don’t know how to handle it. Last year, the funeral had been sandwiched between relief at stopping the collider, the enormity of his new responsibilities, and shock, both at what Uncle Aaron did for a living, what he tried to do, and what he refused to do. This year, he’s not going to have those buffers. And it scares him.

“I just feel like I haven’t really had a chance to focus on it, ya know? Like, Dad and Mom found some peace with it but, like, I haven’t? And haven’t wanted to try? Does that make any sense?”

“Perfect sense, Miles, trust me,” Peter says. “Just take some time for yourself. Bathrooms were made for a reason, right?”

Miles chuckles. “Like I’m gonna have that kind of time, Peter. Between my grandma and my aunties and my cousins and my parents and homework and Spider-man, yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Well, there are other spider-people, you know,” Peter replies slowly, like he doesn’t want to poke the still raw topic, “I know you don’t want us just hopping over without permission, and I‘m still sorry about that, but we could lighten the load for you next week if you want.”

“As opposed to this week.”

“As opposed to this week because it’ll be your choice, Miles,” Peter says, warming up to the topic. “We’ll stay out of your way from now on but if you actually need time away, just ask for it.”

“It’s my responsibility,” Miles replies with rote familiarity. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what kind of feelings or thoughts will come up without Spider-man distracting him. And a part of him doesn't want to, no matter how much he wants to put his uncle's situation to bed.

“ _ You _ are your first responsibility, kid,” Peter says with conviction.

Miles sighs deeply and nods. “I’m really scared.”

“I know, bud.”

“And I don’t have any idea how I’m gonna sit in the same room and listen to everyone skirt around the whole supervillain thing.”

“Again, bathrooms are a thing.” 

Peter’s gentle teasing makes Miles snort.

“Okay, fine,” he finally says.

Peter blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just, like, don’t make it an all day thing like you been doing, okay? You guys all have your own lives and worlds to worry about.”

“Any other conditions?”

Miles thinks about it for a second. “Seven pm to one am are peak supervillain hours. Kraven and Sandman have been real quiet the last month so they’re about due.”

“Noted.”

Miles stands. “I’m heading out. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“I’ll sit by the comms and make myself useful, having a heart attack,” Peter returns. “Joking. Be safe out there.”

“I got this.”

“I know you do.”

* * *

**Thursday**

Miles heads to the nearest fabric store as soon as it opens. Miguel’s list has the eight main colors along with handy formulae for determining web fluid to dye ratio for the various shades of each color. Bare shelves which once housed various knockoff Spider-man crafts greet him as he enters. Fortunately, dye is fifty percent off so he buys a few of each color.

He takes the lot back to the cave, ignoring Mrs. Parker's whispering white lady neighbors when he enters her house. He sets up the instruments and, with a deep breath, dials Gwen.

She answers with a raised eyebrow.

“Want to come over?” he asks haltingly. “I could, um, use your help.”

Gwen nods and cuts the feed before appearing at the other end of the cave. “Sorry for being overbearing and unhelpful last Saturday. So, what did you need my help with?”

Miles pulls out the corkboard, careful not to disturb its design. Then another, then the sketches he hasn't had time to actually build. 

Gwen takes a long look at the bunch and smiles, wide and bright. “You're a genius. You know that, right?” She laughs, wonder written all over her face.

Miles releases the breath he was holding. “So you like them?”

“Miles, they’re great. Really. So, what do you need?”

He pulls out Miguel's list and gestures at the assorted dyes. “I think we're gonna need a lot of dyed web fluid to pull this off.”

“We’d better get started then.”

Gwen reads the formula sheet while Miles sorts the dye cans.

“Hey, Gwen.”

“Hm?”

“You can tell me to step off but your Peter...he tried to kill you, right?”

Gwen’s fist clenches around the paper. “He didn’t know what he was doing, Miles.”

“Yeah, I know, but he did know what he was messing with before though, right?”

“Miles, what is your question?” Gwen snaps.

“How’d you forgive him? Or stop being angry?”

Gwen laughs hollowly. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

Ah.

“Do you think you ever will?” he asks slowly.

“I’m getting there. I hope so anyway.”

"Me, too." Sometimes, he really hates it when Peter's right. Of course there's no easy fix for emotions this complicated. But with time, maybe he can deal with it.

“Miles,” Miles hears before he sees Ganke come down the elevator. Gwen relaxes her grip on the paper and cools her expression. 

The boys trade grins when Ganke notices Gwen. “Hey, Gwen,” he greets her, ducking his head a little. 

“Hey, Ganke,” Gwen says warmly.  

“So, what’s up?”

“Making dyed web fluid,” Miles deadpans.

Ganke groans. “You know, when I became best friends with a superhero, this is not what I had in mind. Those reactions stink.”

“It’s for Peter Parker.”

Ganke takes a second then huffs. “Yeah, okay. I’m game. But you’re buying pizza.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He, Gwen, and Ganke work through the morning and the early afternoon building the extra stable web fluid variant in all the colors plus backups that Miles could need. He dumps the lot into his backpack then the three of them head to Lenny’s. 

Work interrupts, of course. Ganke ducks behind the dumpsters, his smartphone live-streaming the fight between Miles, Gwen, and the Rhino. It has ten million hits before the police cart the Rhino away. Miles and Gwen fist-bump, thankfully back to their normal rhythm. 

Dad stares them down as Rhino is placed in the police car. Miles has had a lot of practice at not reacting to that look in public.

“Officer,” he says, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

Dad huffs and raises an eyebrow. “Spider-man. Spider-woman. Been seeing a lot of you other spiders lately,” he says, his tone a hairsbreadth from demanding an answer.

“It’s that time of year. Seasons’ greetings and all that,” Gwen quips with a flourish.

“Christmas was two weeks ago.”

“Happy Epiphany?” Miles tries.

Dad shakes his head. He’s about to say something when Gwen straightens and plants herself. “He died saving all our worlds. We want to honor that.”

It hits Miles in that second, the truth of Miguel’s reflection. It's not just worry about him, everyone's also trying to find a way to give back to Peter, the man who tried to stop the threat to their worlds and died for it.

Dad eyes them then nods. “I don’t like it, kids as young as you are shouldn’t be involved in something like this, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Gwen replies then swings away.

Miles salutes his dad, says, “see ya, officer,” and follows her into the twilight.

That night, he gets the gang on the chat. He tells them about the web designs, lays out his carefully crafted vision. They listen. They ask him questions. They agree on a plan. Miles goes to bed lighter, a smile on his face. 

* * *

**Friday**

Miles sleeps most of the day. Not because he wants to but because he won't be doing a lot of it over the weekend. He wakes up only to eat and check the police scanners for prison breaks. On one such check, his dad texts that he’s spending the night at the precinct. Good. That’ll make tonight a little easier.

For once, the day is quiet.

* * *

**Saturday**

Miles sneaks out just after midnight, when he’s sure his mom is asleep. He swings into Queens and lands on a building a few blocks from St. Gabriel’s. He texts the others the signal. They materialize one by one as he organizes the web cartridges and double checks his concept art. 

He tosses Benjamin the spare web-shooters, hands out the cartridges, and pulls his mask back on. Peni activates the comms and away they go.

Miles starts with the anchors on sixth, across the street and perpendicular to the church. The short, stiff gloops are spaced about five inches apart, each wide and thick enough to accommodate all of the lines. On the opposite building, Peter sets the second group. He’s quick on the uptake but Miles is more agile so they crawl up the buildings at the same pace. Above them, Peni locks the top rope to Miles’ side of the street before hopping over to the other. Benjamin does the same below. Gwen dances along the top line, setting the third group of anchors. Miguel moves slowly along the bottom line with the fourth.

“You all right, bro?” he calls.

“Getting slow in your old age, Miguel,” Gwen teases.

Miguel huffs through the line, grumbling about kids and no respect. The adults noticeably abstain from joining.

Before he can think on it, Porker swings to the starting anchor, sticks his strand around it, and says, “All way round, kid?”

Miles nods. “You got the sequence?”

“Sure do. Easy peasy. Remind to tell you guys about the time I took out a frog using-”

“Finishing sometime tonight would be fabulous, thanks,” Gwen snarks.

Porker sticks his tongue out at her, somehow, and leaps to the opposite anchor. He pulls the red strand tight over it, pauses, presumably checking where the first skip will take him, then leaps back to Miles’ side of the street. Back and forth Porker leaps, navigating the shift from wall backed anchors to suspended with ease. A thin circle of red takes shape. Half way through, Miles takes a deep breath, sticks his own red strand a few anchors above Porker’s, and leaps towards its opposite number. One by one, the others follow, marking their own sequences and colors until the original Spider-man mask watches over St. Gabriel’s. It’s a little crooked, one side leaning too far downwards but it’s there and that’s what counts.

They swing a block over and begin again. A stylized black spider and a black and gold message - We miss you Peter- emerge from a red and blue background. The art and messages change as they fan out, draping the blocks between the church and the convention center in bright colors and warm wishes. The folks camping outside the convention center point and stare, pull out their smartphones, but the spiders ignore them for Miles’ directions. By the time they’re done, from above looking down, St. Gabriel’s and the convention center become the nucleus of a large spider web, art connected block by block, street by street, interrupted by the buildings in between. It’s long, tiring, but thrilling work.

Miles smiles as dawn inches over the horizon and helicopters and people watch in wonder. It’s hard to track, dozens of stories above ground, but nobody seems hostile. A helicopter stops just above him, the camera pointed directly at him. He salutes it and turns invisible before sliding down the building into the alley below with the others. Well, all except Miguel.

“Where’s-”

“He had to get going, kid. Work stuff,” Peter explains as he hands large hoodies to Porker and Benjamin. Gwen hands her own to Peni, who sends her mech home.

Miles blinks. “Is he okay?” he asks slowly.

“We’re monitoring the situation,” Benjamin replies, “Peter and I will get that cat squared away, don’t you worry ‘bout it. We’ll keep you in the loop.”

Miles nods and throws his cargo pants, hoodie, and shoes over his costume, stuffing his mask into a pocket. Between the paper masks he’d made and the hoodies Peter and Gwen brought, even Porker kinda looks like he belongs. Well, so long as they keep the hoods up and masks on.

Miles leads the group through the gathering crowds towards the food trucks and stalls which have set up shop for the day. He darts around to Felix’s churro stand- the guy always gives Spider-man a free churro or two so Miles likes going as himself and paying the guy- and orders. They cluster together and eat, waiting for the day to begin.

They spend most of it at the convention center, slowly weaving around the spontaneous performances, the five different invention competitions, the best pictures and footage of Peter, much of it taken by the man himself. It’s so crowded and slow going Peter jokes that it makes Comic Con look like a breeze. But. It’s joyful. It’s not happy, exactly, but it is cathartic. People are polite to each other, from the kids running around with spider-man masks painted on their faces, both Peter and his, Miles is surprised to note, to the jaded police officers crowding every corner. They make allowances for others, everyone hyper aware that maybe, somehow, the new Spider-man, perhaps the other spiders, too, is in their midst and they should act accordingly. There’s music and laughter.

The spiders drink it all in. Not for the first time does Miles think Miguel had the right idea about everyone needing this. Gwen pulls Peni into a dance, Peter goes through an entire memory card before lunch, snapping photograph after photograph and letting Benjamin have a go with his prized camera. Porker enthralls some younger children with the tales of Spider-Ham, and Miles...Miles just basks the moment, lets it all wash over him. He spies Mrs. Parker judging the K-3 competition and gives her a thumbs up which she returns with a nod. He watches his dad patiently help a young couple with their screaming toddler.

He watches the  _ good  _ that Peter Parker did, and is doing even in death, and dares to hope that one day, he’ll feel the same for Uncle Aaron. That one day, he will be able to untangle the knot, even for one day, and remember everything he loves without Uncle Aaron’s betrayal souring it.

Three o’clock rolls around and the group makes its way outside. The crowds surrounding the church and graveyard have swelled, though people have left the paths to the church entrance clear. On a whim, Miles enters it, crossing himself as he does so. Tiny tea light candles line chapel several rows deep. Most are already lit. Still, he puts a dollar in the collection box and lights one for Peter and one for Uncle Aaron. Words don’t come but it’s okay.

That done, he rejoins the group outside as they begin to wander back towards the streets, the web art barely bouncing in the blustery afternoon. People are smiling at the pieces, thanking the new spiders, remarking that their spider has got great artistic flair. Peter gives him a one-armed hug when they hear that. Office workers, tenants, and building managers are already lining the roofs and windows of the buildings facing St. Gabriel’s for the candlelight vigil. As twilight falls, the group surreptitiously webs to the top of one of the taller buildings. The view’s not as great, which is the point, but they’ll still be able to hear the ceremony.

Miles catches a catnap under some blankets until Peter shakes him awake. Snow is falling in tiny clumps and down on the street, thousands of electric candles dot the evening in place of the streetlights. There’s a large spotlight and a dozen cameras at the church steps and several strategically placed large screens throughout the area. In the distance, Miles can make out the Empire State building decked out in blue and red lights.

He puts his mask back on as the mayor speaks, thanking this and that sponsor and whatever. Carefully, he walks to the building’s edge and sits down, feet dangling over the side and hands stuck to the concrete. Gwen sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder, Peter just behind them. The others stand back a foot or two, on guard in the night.

Mary-Jane and Mrs. Parker walk towards the podium, the street echoing in thunderous applause. They take all the attention gracefully, exhaustion lining their faces on the monitors. Peter tenses behind Miles. Miles leans back into him and Peter squeezes his shoulder.

They alternate speaking. They barely mention Spider-man. 

They talk about Peter Parker. About his November to Lent Christmas music, about his social awkwardness, about his godawful sense of humor, about his sensitivity and kindness. That’s the theme they keep coming back to, in between their Peter stories and their ‘one year on’ stories. Kindness and sensitivity, duty to each other. How everyone needs someone and that’s what Peter was all about. Peter Parker - Spider-man - was built on the foundations of empathy and a desire to make the world better. How proud Peter Parker would be of the city he left behind, the spiders who followed after him. How thankful he would be that the city banded together, hand in hand, proving he’d placed his trust in the right people in the wake of his death. 

They can practically hear a pin drop when the moment of silence starts. It’s weird; New York is never this quiet. Someone else apparently feels the same way because before time is up, the Spider-Man theme song breaks the silence, softly at first but picking up speed and sound over the seconds. It’s corny as hell but no one’s laughing or rolling their eyes or what have you. Miles only realizes he’s joining in when Gwen puts her head on his shoulder.

Mary-Jane gives some closing remarks and the ceremony officially ends. Miles, Peter, and Gwen remain where they are, watching the crowd slowly scatter. Benjamin clears his throat and Peter shifts and stands, tapping Miles on the shoulder. Miles blinks and turns.

His jaw drops.

Along the rooftop or stuck on the side of the neighboring building are several dozen people, all dressed and masked. There’s Miguel, Gwen and Peni’s Mary Jane, an old woman in a wheelchair staring intently at him, other Peter Parkers, other Gwen Stacys. Even a dog. Mech and medieval, bright and dark, young and old, all are represented here.

Peter smiles sheepishly.

Miles blinks. “What? That’s what you-? I thought-”

“All I did was ask. They all volunteered. Peni drew up the schedule.”

She hmms. “It’s not like it was hard. There are one hundred sixty-eight hours in a week, divided by sixty-nine spiders is two point four three hours, rounded to two and a half, it’s basically a feature length film’s time for each of us. Arguing over time slots-”

“Thank you,” Miles says in a rush as he stands. He chokes up a little. “Thank you all so much.” He meets Peter’s eyes. “Seriously.”

Peter pulls him in for a hug, one which Miles fully returns. They stand there a moment and it should feel awkward, all these people watching, but it doesn’t. Gwen holds them both and Miles is gesturing for all of his friends to join them, which they do. Even Miguel.

When Miles finally pulls away, Peter claps his shoulder. “Well, go on then. My shift starts in about twenty minutes. We’ll worry about New York, you worry about Miles for the week.”

Miles nods, wiping the tears and snot from his nose, then says to all of the spiders, “Thank you.”

“Thank you” “Thank him” “No problem” flit through the group. Miles swings home, light as air, as one by one the other spiders flicker back to their home dimensions, Peter’s red and blue vanishing behind him.

* * *

“Miles, where were you? What is going on? Are you all right? Why didn’t you text?” his mother fires rapidly as he closes the door behind him. Dad seems to still be out.

He ducks his head and says, “Sorry, Mami, I was just watching the ceremony and lost track of time. Lo siento.”

Mom crosses her arms and taps a finger before pulling him in for a hug. “You know your father wanted you to stay away from that area.”

He leans into her. “I know. I just…” he tells her the truth he’s been avoiding all week, “it was easier than staying here all day thinking about…”

She strokes his hair and kisses his forehead. “Next time, let us know, you understand? Now get to bed, we’re going to early mass tomorrow then your grandmama’s house for breakfast and I won’t have you falling asleep at either.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

She gives him a fond smile and releases him.

He closes his bedroom door and walks to the windows. A streak of red and blue flies across the street. 

Miles pulls his curtains and blinds down for the first time in a year.


End file.
